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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26350951">pull me up (from down below)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuthienKenobi/pseuds/LuthienKenobi'>LuthienKenobi</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Teen Wolf (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Lore Shenanigans, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s03e18 Riddled, Frontotemporal Dementia, Gen, Good Alpha Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski Accepts The Bite, True Alpha Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), no nogitsune</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:43:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,990</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26350951</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuthienKenobi/pseuds/LuthienKenobi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“Stiles, if you have it, we’ll do something. ...I’ll do something.”</em>
</p>
<p>There’s something in his voice, something firm and definitive and assured, that makes Stiles meet Scott’s eyes for the first time since the conversation started.</p>
<p>(At least he thinks it’s the first time. He can’t be sure—can’t be sure of anything any more—and god he hates that. Hates that his mind is betraying him, hates that he can’t tell the difference between fantasy and reality, hates that he feels so <em>damn lost</em>—) </p>
<p>(His mind’s the only weapon he has. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he lost it. Is losing it. Has lost it.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Scott McCall &amp; Stiles Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski &amp; Stiles Stilinski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>165</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>pull me up (from down below)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A gigantic thank you to my lovely betas <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/momentofmemory">momentofmemory</a> and <a href="https://brambleberrycottage.tumblr.com">brambleberrycottage</a>! I can't even begin to explain how fantastic y'all were.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> “Stiles, if you have it, we’ll do something. ... </em> I’ll <em> do something.” </em></p><hr/>
<p>There’s something in his voice, something firm and definitive and assured, that makes Stiles meet Scott’s eyes for the first time since the conversation started.</p>
<p>(At least he thinks it’s the first time. He can’t be sure—can’t be sure of anything any more—and <em> god </em> he hates that. Hates that his mind is betraying him, hates that he can’t tell the difference between fantasy and reality, hates that he feels so <em> damn lost </em>—) </p>
<p>(His mind’s the only weapon he has. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he lost it. Is losing it. Has lost it.)</p>
<p>But Scott sounds so confident that for a moment Stiles just wants to yell at him because <em> didn’t you hear me, there’s no cure and no cure means no hope, nothing to solve, nothing to do; it means wasting away in a hospital bed until I don’t recognize you, don’t trust you, don’t— </em></p>
<p>He doesn’t yell, because there’s no point. It doesn’t matter, not really.</p>
<p>He’s just so <em> tired </em>. </p>
<p>Or maybe it’s because he wants so desperately to believe him. Wants to have something solid to cling to because he feels like he’s slipping underwater, and he doesn’t know how to fight his way to the surface.</p>
<p>He looks up, and Scott has that look in his eyes—the one that’s searching and calming and says <em> it’s okay, trust me </em>.  The look that Lydia likes to roll her eyes at and call his ‘Alpha look,’ but Stiles thinks that’s not quite right, because he’s seen that look in Scott’s eyes before, back when they were still gold. </p>
<p>He remembers something Derek said once: that even back then, Scott was already an Alpha of his own pack. He thinks that maybe Scott’s eye color just finally caught up with reality. Maybe that’s all that being a True Alpha really means. </p>
<p>And if Scott’s always been an alpha, then even though he’s human, Stiles has always been part of the pack. Maybe that’s why he wants to believe him so badly. Wants to grab on to that lifeline and trust him.</p>
<p>And he <em> does </em> trust him, and it’s bone deep and instinctual. The realization shocks him, even though it really shouldn’t, because it’s just something that <em> is </em>, and long seconds (minutes? hours?) pass before the meaning of the words catch up to him.</p>
<p>
  <em> I’ll do something. </em>
</p>
<p>Oh, right. That.</p>
<p>It’s not a question—not <em> the </em> question, not yet—but it deserves a response all the same. He nods (thinks he nods. did he nod?) and trusts Scott to understand, because some things are too big for words. </p>
<p>Scott pulls him into a hug, and he clings to that, too. </p><hr/>
<p>They explain the procedure to him, but he barely listens, because he knows what an MRI is. Tiny tube, magnetic coils, loud noises, stay absolutely still for forty-five minutes to an hour. </p>
<p>The test doesn’t scare him—he thinks absently that if the circumstances were literally anything else this would actually be really, really cool. But he is scared, because he knows himself, and he knows that lying completely still in a metal tube sounds like the definition of torture. Nothing to do, to read, to research. Not allowed to bounce his legs or fidget with anything, or tap his fingers on the table in that rhythmic way that focuses him when his brain’s moving a mile a minute. If he does that then his head might move, and he’ll have to endure yet another hour of cadaver reenactment theater.</p>
<p>But he’s lying on a thin mattress, head wedged in a too-soft pillow, and he’s not worried about any of those things because he’s just so damn <em> tired </em>.</p>
<p>(That’s not entirely true, because if he can’t move then he can’t count his fingers, so how is he supposed to know if any of this is real? Maybe he’s still back in the cave, maybe he’s freezing to death right now and what he needs to do is get up and run, run as fast and far as he can—)</p>
<p>(He’s five years old and he’s at the beach. The waves are beating rhythmically at his ankles and he can’t run because he can’t get a solid footing, and he’s falling—)</p>
<p>The loud clanging stops. He knows it stops, but he also doesn’t remember the machine ever being on. It must have been, because that’s the literal, actual definition of cause and effect, but he doesn’t remember it.</p>
<p>The bed slides free of the machine, and he shoves his hands in front of his eyes, counting like his life depends on it.</p>
<p>He wishes he knew whether or not it actually does.</p><hr/>
<p>The results of the scan confirm what Stiles already knows. The damage isn’t severe, not yet, but his frontal and temporal lobes have already started to atrophy. He’ll have lucid days—lucid weeks even, stretches of time when it’ll be hard to believe that anything is even wrong—but as the months and years stretch on, it’s only going to get worse.</p>
<p>The doctor starts to outline a detailed treatment plan, something about drug regimens and lifestyle changes, but none of it’s a solution.</p>
<p>There <em> is </em> a solution, Stiles knows that, but it’s also a potential death sentence. Which means that, while the doctor drones on in a grave voice about absolutely meaningless details, he has a decision to make.</p>
<p>He glances over at his dad, who’s trying to be strong, trying to stay practical and supportive, but Stiles knows what a waking nightmare looks like. Recognizes the gaunt lines and the haunted look on his dad’s face because he’s seen it on his own in the mirror after a particularly bad night.</p>
<p>It’s not even a decision, not really. His mind’s already made up. </p><hr/>
<p>The doctor’s still talking, and Stiles can’t just sit here and listen to this anymore. He needs to get out, needs to leave. It doesn’t matter anymore, isn’t going to matter—and they don’t even need him there anyway, since his dad’s still there. Not that the doctor’s telling him anything he doesn’t already know, but his dad’s polite, so he’s still sitting there, listening.</p>
<p>Stiles has always been the rude one, so he doesn’t feel bad when he runs out of the room because he can’t stand it any longer.</p>
<p>(He doesn’t run. He walks? He leaves.)</p>
<p>He doesn’t think he slams the door behind him. But it’s shut and he’s bent over, breathing heavy. Strong hands close on his shoulders, supporting him, and when he looks up Scott’s there, because of course he is. Because that’s what they do: support each other. That’s what they’ve always done.</p>
<p>(They’re seven and it’s Stiles’ hands on Scott’s shoulders because Scott’s dad just left, and Scott’s crying because he doesn’t know why, or if his dad’s ever coming back. They’re ten and the roles are reversed because Stiles’ mom has just died, and he does know why and she <em> isn’t </em> coming back. They’re sixteen, and the roles have switched again, because Scott’s filled with an aggression he doesn’t understand, desperately trying to keep the gold from flashing in his eyes.)</p>
<p>They’re seventeen, and Scott pulls him into another hug. </p>
<p>Stiles doesn’t have to say anything because Scott knows. Maybe because he was listening, or maybe he can hear it in his heartbeat or see it on his face, but it doesn’t matter. </p>
<p>He knows.</p>
<p>Scott’s arms are around him, grounding him, and he’s so relieved he doesn’t need to say it out loud, because he’s not sure he actually can. Not that he’s trying very hard—<em> wants </em> to try very hard—but even if he did he doesn’t think the words would actually form on his tongue. Just another thing that’s too big, too weighty. Too much.</p>
<p>They move to a couple of chairs pushed up against the wall outside the exam room, and Stiles thinks that far too much of his life has been spent in these things. Which seems like a waste really, because they’re basically the world’s most uncomfortable chair. Thin cushioning, arms at just the wrong height, no back support to speak of. If this keeps up, he’s definitely going to develop some sort of condition later in life— </p>
<p>He freezes when he catches up with that particular train of thought, because no matter which way this goes down, that’s something he won’t have to worry about. </p>
<p>(If stress injuries aren’t a thing, shouldn’t werewolves have horrible posture? If their bodies are constantly healing them all the time, shouldn’t they have picked up all sorts of bad habits simply because their bodies never hurt enough to tell them to stop?)</p>
<p>(Scott’s always said that pain makes you human, but maybe all that really means is that humanity is pain.)</p>
<p>Scott’s hand is still on his arm, and he doesn’t count his fingers, because at least for right now he knows where he is. He takes a deep breath, and it only shakes a little.</p>
<p>“Stiles—”</p>
<p>“You know, you can save your little recruitment speech, or whatever it was you had planned.” He swallows. “I’ve already made up my mind.”</p>
<p>The corner of Scott’s lip turns up in what might’ve been a smile. Or at least a significantly fond huff of exasperation. “I did actually have a whole speech ready. And a pretty convincing one too. If you want to hear it anyways.”</p>
<p>Because of course Scott did, because he’s always been predictable like that. Or maybe that’s just what happens when you’ve known someone almost your entire life. Maybe after twelve years of being joined at the hip, words just aren’t that important anymore. Maybe sometimes you just <em> know </em>.</p>
<p>(He’s sitting on the bed in the MRI room, and Scott catches his gaze. Holds it. <em> I’ll do something </em>.)</p>
<p>But that isn’t right, because there’s a steadying weight on his arm that wasn’t there before. The MRI’s over and he’s sitting in a chair, and Scott asked him a question. </p>
<p>He shakes his head. “Nah, save it for someone who really needs it.” He glances over and Scott still looks concerned, so he tries for humor. “I’m sure it’ll come up again at some point, and I’d hate for you to try to pop it out only to find it’s gone all stale and moldy.”</p>
<p>That’s a real grin from Scott this time, and his eyebrows threaten to climb to the ceiling. “Moldy?”</p>
<p>“You know, like bread. Or french fries. I dunno, junk food’s a pretty good motivator.”</p>
<p>“If that’s the case, maybe I should’ve picked up some curly fries on my way up here.”</p>
<p>He shakes his head, because he hasn’t gone home yet, and he knows Scott hasn’t either. “You say that like you ever actually left.”</p>
<p>Scott shrugs. “They serve curly fries in the cafeteria here, too, you know.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, and they’re a disgrace to the name of curly fries everywhere.” He knows this doesn’t matter—none of this matters—but the banter is easy and it feels normal. </p>
<p>He keeps talking.  “Real curly fries probably wouldn’t be caught dead within fifty feet of them. In fact, the real ones probably have a restraining order on them. Signed by a judge, notarized, everything.”</p>
<p>Scott laughs, and Stiles feels a jolt of pride—his brain may be shriveling up like a goddamned raisen, but at least he still has the presence of mind to make his best friend laugh. </p>
<p>(It’s the morning after the full moon and he’s driving his jeep at some ungodly post-dawn hour. Scott’s in the passenger seat, shirtless and exhausted, and his mind’s racing a million different places at once, because <em> his best friend is an honest-to-god werewolf </em>. But Scott has this dejected look on his face, so he cracks a joke—a bad joke—but it has its desired effect because Scott actually laughs—)</p>
<p>“Stiles?”</p>
<p>Scott’s hand isn’t on his arm anymore, and he doesn’t remember when that happened. He clears his throat and tries for normal. “Yeah, I’m here, sorry. I was just… Sorry.”</p>
<p>“It’s all right—you’re okay.” Stiles doesn’t meet Scott’s eyes this time, but he hears the concern in his voice. The desire to comfort. “You said something about your mind being made up?”</p>
<p>Right. The decision that isn’t a decision, because it’s the only logical answer. The only possible solution to the puzzle.</p>
<p>Stiles nods, takes another deep breath. “Scott, I’m gonna be completely honest with you, this—all of this…” He glances back at the wall of the exam room, where his dad and the doctor are still talking. “...It scares the hell out of me.”</p>
<p>(Did they leave and he didn’t notice? No, it hasn’t been that long. Has it?)</p>
<p>Scott follows his gaze to the wall, and listens. “They’re talking about some prescription now, I think. I didn’t catch the name.”</p>
<p>Stiles releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding, because that means he hasn’t lost time again, at least not significantly. He doesn’t know how Scott knew what he was thinking, but he’s grateful.</p>
<p>He shrugs.</p>
<p>“Probably something only marginally helpful, with a long name and even longer list of horrifying side effects.” Stiles pauses, teeth digging into his lip, and drags his focus back to the previous conversation. “You know if it was just me, I don’t—I don’t know. But stuff like this... it’s not just gonna happen to me.”</p>
<p>(He’s nine years old and it’s not even a school day, but it’s barely morning and he’s awake, and it’s because of the yelling. It’s nothing to worry about, just Mom having one of her episodes again, but no matter how hard he shoves his pillow over his head he can’t seem to get back to sleep.)</p>
<p>He shakes his head. Clears it. “I can’t put my dad through this. Not again.” It’s another thing that’s just too big to say, but he glances up at Scott and hopes he understands.</p>
<p>Scott nods. “Okay.”</p>
<p>As if it’s that simple. And what does he know, maybe it is. Scott certainly seems to think so—at least, there’s no confusion or judgment on his face. Just calm. Understanding. Acceptance. Which is just fine by Stiles, as there’s more than enough confusion coming from himself these days. The exterior source of calm is practically refreshing.</p>
<p>Guilt floods in, because he doesn’t want, never wanted, to rely on Scott like that. Scott’s the one who always has to be strong, the one everyone’s relying on and expecting to do great things. He knows it’s a burden, and he doesn’t want to add to that. Doesn’t want to be the weak link. Doesn’t want Scott to have to support him, too.</p>
<p>Except he already does, because he always has, because they support each other. Because they’re brothers.</p>
<p>(Two hands wrapped around a burning road flare. Acrid scent of fuel searing his nose. Two sets of feet firmly placed in a puddle of gasoline. <em> Scott, you’re my brother.) </em></p>
<p>If Scott has to ask, then so does he. “What about you? You okay with this?”</p>
<p>The calm in Scott’s eyes shifts to confusion. “What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“Look, Scott, I know you never wanted any of this. I was there with you through the whole thing, remember? It was a frickin’ nightmare for you, and I know you never wanted to put anyone else through that. You’re sure you’re okay with this?”</p>
<p>Scott barely even takes time to consider the answer, tilting his head to catch Stiles’ eyes in that way he has. “Stiles, of course I’m okay with this,” he says, and Stiles may not be able to read a heartbeat, but he can see the truth of it in his eyes. “It’s you.”</p><hr/>
<p>He asks Scott to be there when he tells his dad. The decision’s already made, but—his dad deserves to know. <em> Needs </em> to know what could go wrong.</p>
<p>They’re at Stiles’ house, sitting around the kitchen table, and it’s so <em> normal </em>, because they’ve done this a million times before.</p>
<p>(They’re eight and sitting across from each other, and Scott’s pouting with that indignant look he gets, because Stiles just threw a sausage off the pizza at him when Dad wasn’t looking. Scott throws a pepperoni back, but it doesn’t make it all the way across and sticks solidly in the center of the table. Stiles sticks his tongue out at him.)</p>
<p>Stiles blinks hard, because they’re not eight, they’re seventeen, and this isn’t just some sleepover. He knows where he is, he knows what’s happening. He does.</p>
<p>He doesn't need to count his fingers, so he drums them on the table, one after another, rhythmically, and he doesn’t want to stop. Can’t stop? Could stop. </p>
<p>His fingers keep moving.</p>
<p>(He wishes he knows whether it’s because of the FTD or the ADHD, or just standard issue, garden variety anxiety. Because it would be a miracle if he hasn’t developed that over the past year, too.)</p>
<p>(He wonders what will happen to the ADHD, after. It scares him a little—he can’t really imagine life without it—but it’d be nice to have the medication off the monthly expenses. One less thing for Dad to worry about, and that’s a good thing. That’s always a good thing.)</p>
<p>His dad’s talking, Dad and Scott, and Stiles forces himself to focus on the conversation. He doesn’t know how the conversation began, doesn’t remember it starting, but his dad sounds upset. Voice raised, but only because that’s how he is when he’s worried.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, you want to—” his dad seems to realize his tone, and modulates it down. Eyes glancing around like it’s some big secret, even though they’re the only people in the house. “You want to <em> what </em>? Don’t you think that’s a bit extreme? No offense.” The last sentence is added as an afterthought, a concession to factors Stiles knows he’s not used to considering. </p>
<p>“None taken,” Scott says easily. “And normally I’d agree with you, but—”</p>
<p>“We don’t really think there’s another choice here, Dad.” Stiles cuts in, because this is his decision, so he should be the one to explain. “And besides, we, uh. We may be up against a bit of a time crunch here.”</p>
<p>Dad glances between them. “Time crunch? This thing lasts for years, you know that. That’s time for treatments, for experimental therapies, for…”</p>
<p>“Dad, you know that’s not gonna fix anything, it’ll just”—he gestures wildly—“prolong the inevitable.”</p>
<p>“You don’t know that.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I do. And so do you.” He drags his hand over his face, glancing to Scott before meeting his dad’s eyes again. “Look, Scott talked to Deaton. The physical structures of my brain would heal, but the brain’s really more like a computer than anything. And if you chip away at a hard drive, all the data that was stored there, it just gets deleted. Even if you manage to rebuild the hard drive…” He trails off.</p>
<p>Dad sits back, and Stiles sees the realization sinking in. “And in this little analogy of yours, the data is…”</p>
<p>“Memories, personality, sense of self. Everything that makes me, me.”</p>
<p>Scott leans forward. “Plus, the longer we wait, the weaker he gets. There’s a chance it won’t even work at all.”</p>
<p>“You mean he could die.” Dad’s voice is hard, and it’s both a challenge and an accusation.</p>
<p>“I’m not going to let that happen.”</p>
<p>They stare at each other, and Stiles is about to intervene because it doesn’t look like either of them is backing down any time soon, but Dad looks away first.</p>
<p>“How do you know it isn’t already too late?” Dad’s voice is quiet. Strained. “His symptoms… The doctor said that they’re ‘surprisingly acute’ for this stage of the disease. And I know how to read between the lines.”</p>
<p>And with that, Scott is back in reassurance mode. “Actually, Deaton has a theory about that, too.”</p>
<p>Stiles picks up the explanation from there, because that’s his job. Because he’s the guy with the explanations. “He thinks it probably has something to do with the sacrifices. That it might’ve… made my symptoms worse. A lot worse. Maybe even jump started the dementia in the first place.”</p>
<p>Dad looks at him sharply. “Sacrifices? You mean when you—”</p>
<p>“—nearly drowned trying to save you from our psychotic English teacher? Yeah, something like that.” He taps at the table again, index finger against hardwood, teeth worrying his bottom lip. </p>
<p>(He’s underwater, cold, skin numb. Hands on his shoulders, holding him down. Fighting the impulse to hold on to his last breath even as his head feels like it’s about to explode.)</p>
<p>“Stiles!” </p>
<p>Scott’s worried again. His fault, Scott’s worried about him. He needs to stop that, needs to pull himself together. He can’t keep being the weak one. </p>
<p>(He’s sixteen, and he and Scott have just rescued Jackson from Argent, but no matter what they do everything just spirals further and further out of control. There’s fear in Scott’s eyes, and when he says that he can’t protect anyone, he’s looking at Stiles.)</p>
<p>He’s seventeen and he’s sitting at his kitchen table, and this feels real, but so does everything else. He tries to count his fingers, but the world refuses to come into focus, and he settles for splaying his hand out against the table instead. Cool wood under his palm. Tries to count the points of contact, but he’s still underwater and he can’t breathe—</p>
<p>“Stiles, look at me, man. You okay?”</p>
<p>He glances up automatically, and Scott’s crouched in front of him, trying to catch his eyes. He doesn’t know when that happened. Doesn’t know how long his mind was somewhere else. </p>
<p>He blinks rapidly, and for a wild second wonders if he can get away with lying. If he can just push through back to reality, maybe no one will know just how lost he really is.</p>
<p>He knows it’s not going to work, isn’t going to fool anyone, but he nods anyways. “Yeah no, I’m good, I’m—” He can’t stop his voice from shaking, and he cuts himself off.</p>
<p>“Stiles, please, you need to be honest with me.” Scott’s voice is earnest and he <em> already knows </em>, so against his better judgement, Stiles meets his eyes. Scott holds his gaze.  “It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>Stiles nods. Runs his tongue over dry lips before responding. “It’s, uh. It’s not just that I can’t keep reality straight anymore, it’s like everything’s happening at once.” He huffs out a laugh, but it isn’t funny. “Like every god-awful thing that we’ve ever experienced is just playing over and over again in my head and I can’t— I can’t make it stop.”</p>
<p>“You’re saying the sacrifices caused this?” This is from his dad, and Stiles jerks his head over in surprise, because he had forgotten that anyone else was in the room. And if Scott’s worried, then Dad looks downright scared. Maybe even a little angry.</p>
<p>Scott responds, but his eyes don’t leave Stiles’ face. “Yeah, we knew there was a risk. That it would affect us, even after we were brought back.”</p>
<p>“Affect you? Scott, this isn’t just an effect, this is…” Dad trails off, runs his hand over the back of his neck.</p>
<p>Scott looks over, then. Stands up. “Like your wife.”</p>
<p>Dad nods. “It took years for Claudia’s to get this bad. And by the time she did…”</p>
<p>(He’s nine, and he’s sitting at the kitchen table with Mom and Dad, and he’s crying because they’re taking Mom to the hospital today and she might never be able to come back.)</p>
<p>Scott responds in that calm, reassuring voice, and he isn’t talking to him, but Stiles strains to listen anyways. “I know. And trust me, it scares me, too.” He glances over at Stiles and meets his eyes for a second time. "But I also know that we can do this.” </p>
<p>Stiles speaks up, because at least for now he can breathe normally. “You’re the one who wanted to look for an experimental treatment.”</p>
<p>Dad glances at him, and there’s less fear now, but he doesn’t look fully convinced. “This is one hell of a treatment plan, Stiles.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, you know. Side effects may include glowing eyes, fangs. The irresistible urge to maim and kill on a full moon.”</p>
<p>It’s a joke, but apparently not a good one, because Dad looks over at Scott again, alarmed. “But that’s controllable, right? You learned to control it.”</p>
<p>Scott’s all earnestness and assurances. “Yeah, of course. And besides, we’ve got time—the full moon’s still over a week away.”</p>
<p>“Dad, I’m not saying this is gonna be easy, but Scott figured this out pretty much all on his own.” He glances across the table at his best friend. “I’m going to have a few more advantages going into this than he did.”</p>
<p>Seconds pass, and Stiles isn’t holding his breath. He isn’t. After all, he doesn’t need his dad’s permission—hasn’t needed Dad to allow him to do anything for years—but he doesn’t want to hurt him. Doesn’t want to cause him any more pain.</p>
<p>Finally, <em> finally </em>, Dad breathes out and levels Scott with a look. “You watch out for him. You promise me that.”</p>
<p>Scott nods. “I will.”</p>
<p>“We’ll watch out for each other, Dad,” Stiles adds. “Just like we always do.”</p>
<p>“I know you do, kiddo.” Stiles hears his dad’s voice crack. Hears him push past it. “I just— I can’t lose you, too.”</p>
<p>“I know, Dad. And you’re not going to.”</p>
<p>(As long as this works.)</p><hr/>
<p>The whole pack is gathered in the back room of Deaton’s clinic, and Stiles feels uncomfortably like some sort of specimen on display, or like the star performer for something he never actually got a script for.</p>
<p>(He’s had nightmares like that before—<em> used </em> to have nightmares like that. His nightmares are a little different these days. Fewer social faux pas, more teeth and blood. Light reflected in cold, bright water.)</p>
<p>He blinks and he’s sitting on something hard. Cold. He flexes his fingers but doesn’t count them. He’s sitting on the metal exam table, and he grips the lip of it hard with both hands. He’s here, this is real, but if something doesn’t happen soon, he feels like he’s going to crawl out of his skin.</p>
<p>“Well? You planning on just staring at me until I die of old age?” It’s harsher than he means it—it’s the FTD talking, or maybe it’s just fear, he doesn’t know. Can’t tell the difference. But it has the desired effect, and everyone else in the room shifts guiltily. </p>
<p>Scott’s standing beside him, on his right, and he shakes his head, like he had forgotten why they were here in the first place—which is mildly hilarious, because that’s supposed to be <em> his </em> role in all this. “Right, sorry. It’s just, I’ve never done this before.”</p>
<p>Stiles’ dad is here, too—he’d asked to be, in case everything goes wrong—and he doesn’t exactly look encouraged by that. Stiles knows that look, knows that his dad is about to intervene, so he turns to Scott instead. “But you went to Derek, right? Got the whole Alpha 101 crash course?”</p>
<p>Scott nods. “Yeah, but he said that at a certain point it’s pretty much instinct? That it’ll just ‘feel right.’” </p>
<p>“Yeah, sure. Except for the blinding pain.” This is from Isaac, who’s standing next to Allison and leaning against one of the many counters lining the clinic’s back room. Scott shoots him a look, and he has the grace to look chastised. “Sorry.”</p>
<p>Allison looks sympathetic, but also like she’d rather be anywhere else but here. Her taser is holstered at her hip, and Stiles kinda really hopes no one lets her use it if things go south.</p>
<p>(He knows why they’re hesitating, knows they’ve all heard stories about worst case scenarios. Remembers Jackson out of his mind, desperately trying to hide the black fluid leaking from his body instead of blood.)</p>
<p>Stiles shifts uncomfortably. “Y’know, as much as I absolutely hate the concept of ‘blinding pain’—thank you so much for that, by the way—I am a big believer in ripping off the bandaid. So can we just get this over with, maybe? Please?” He uncurls his fingers from the lip of the table (it takes far more concentration that it should, letting go one finger at a time) and raises his arm up towards Scott.</p>
<p>He counts his fingers the second he sees them, instinctively. There’s five of them. This is real.</p>
<p>This is real.</p>
<p>A warm weight curls around his other hand, the one still gripping the table, and Lydia’s there. He lets go of the table and holds on to her instead, glancing up gratefully.  </p>
<p>(Her hand’s in his, and he’s leading her onto the dance floor, because he’ll be damned if he lets Lydia Martin mope by herself at a table all evening.)</p>
<p>(Her hand’s in his, but it’s limp and sticky with blood, and he’s panicking, breathing heavy, because he doesn’t know if she’s alive or dead or—)  </p>
<p>“Stiles.” There’s a hand on his shoulder that wasn’t there before, and Scott’s voice cuts through. He focuses on it. “You with us?”</p>
<p>He calms his breathing. Tries to calm his breathing. “No I’m—I’m all right now. I’m good. Just forgot where I was for a second.”</p>
<p>Deaton’s standing at the other end of the room, and he tilts his head, considering. “No, you were hallucinating. For a second there, you actually were somewhere else.”</p>
<p>Stiles shakes his head, frustrated, because the last thing he wants to do is dwell on the hellscape his brain has become. He’s become the unreliable narrator of his own life, and at the end of the day it doesn’t mean anything and it <em> doesn’t matter </em> because it’s just another symptom. Another sign of the disease literally eating away at his brain.</p>
<p>(He’s ten years old and something in his gut just froze, because Mom’s staring at him, confused. When he asks what’s wrong, she says she doesn’t have a son.)</p>
<p>He’s losing his mind, but everyone’s staring at him, and he doesn’t want to explain it. Wants to run away, as fast and far as possible—</p>
<p>He doesn’t have to explain, because Scott notices his hesitation and answers for him. “He said it’s more like he’s getting lost in the past? Like his memories and experiences are just replaying themselves in his head.”</p>
<p>Deaton directs the next question at Siles. “And the memory you were just in?”</p>
<p>He breathes in, shallow and shaky, and wishes they’d move to another topic already, because this is just a symptom and it <em> doesn’t matter </em>. He glances over at Scott, who nods encouragingly. Stiles still rolls his eyes before he responds. “The night of the Winter Formal, if you really need to know. When Peter…” </p>
<p>He bites his lip and trails off. He doesn’t look at Lydia, because if he does he’s afraid he’ll be back there again—terrified and shaking, kneeling over her body on the lacrosse field. Dark blood on her pale dress.</p>
<p>Lydia squeezes his hand, and it’s warm and strong and alive. “Stiles, you listen to me, I’m right here. I survived.” He glances up and her eyes are wide, but her voice is steady. Sharp, even. “I survived, and you’re going to survive. You have to believe that.”</p>
<p>Scott takes his other hand, and for a moment Stiles is grounded. Bracketed on both sides by his friends. He takes a second breath, deeper than the first. Then a third.</p>
<p>He’s sitting on a cold table and his friends have him, and this is real.</p>
<p>Deaton continues. “Stiles, you—perhaps more than anyone—know that the supernatural and the psychological are deeply connected. It’s not just scientific mechanisms, it’s focus and belief. Identity.”</p>
<p>(His hand curls around the cold metal of the Sheriff’s badge as he lowers himself into the water. He has to think about his dad, focus on him, or the sacrifice won’t work.)</p>
<p>(He’s holding the last handful of mountain ash, and it isn’t enough to complete the circle, not nearly. But he pictures it in his mind, believes it, and when he looks back his hand is empty, and the circle is complete. Unbroken. Whole.)</p>
<p>He does understand. “Be the spark.”</p>
<p>Deaton nods. “Exactly. Attempting something like this without a firm grasp of your own sense of self… It could be dangerous even if your body doesn’t reject the bite.”</p>
<p>A curl of fear twists in his gut, but it’s Scott who responds. “You mean like Jackson?”</p>
<p>(He’s sixteen, and he’s treading water like his life depends on it, because it does. The horrible reptilian thing that’s been tearing people apart is pacing the edge of the pool, waiting to pounce, so he keeps moving. Fights to keep his head above water.)</p>
<p>“Yes, it’s possible.” Deaton’s talking to him again, and he fights to focus on his voice. “Right now you’re unmoored, unstable. For this to have the best chance of working, you need to find something to hold on to.”</p>
<p>(He’s five years old, the sand is sucking at his feet, and he’s about to fall face first into the ocean.)</p>
<p>He’s five years old and he’s at the beach— No, he’s seventeen and he’s in Deaton’s clinic, and he can barely hear his own voice.</p>
<p>“It’s like everything is shifting,” he says, and he hates how lost he sounds. “I can’t find my footing and I can’t catch my breath, and I can’t— I can’t, it’s too strong.”</p>
<p>“Then stop trying to fight it.”</p>
<p>“<em> What </em> ?” He glares up at Deaton. He has to fight it, can’t forget who he is, where he is. His own brain may be conspiring against him, but he can’t stop, can’t give up. Giving up is losing, and losing is always, <em> always </em> death.</p>
<p>(He’s underwater and every molecule in his body is telling him to fight it, but he gives in. Gives up because he has to, because his dad is counting on him. Because Dad will be dead if he doesn’t.)</p>
<p>(Stiles will be dead if he does.)</p>
<p>“Stiles.” His dad’s voice cuts through this time, and it pulls him from the memory, because his dad is <em> here </em> and he’s <em> alive </em>. “Stiles, when you were a kid and I was teaching you how to swim, do you remember what I told you to do if you get caught in a current?”</p>
<p>Stiles is breathing fast, and he really, really doesn’t want to panic. He focuses just hard enough to nod. Short. Quick. “Yeah. Yeah, I remember.”</p>
<p>“Good. That’s good, kiddo. The current could pull you under, so you don’t fight it. Instead, you get smart. What do you do?”</p>
<p>“Swim with it.”</p>
<p>Dad nods, and there’s pain in his eyes, but Stiles thinks that maybe there’s also pride. “That’s right, you use the current, and you get yourself to safety. You think you can do that for me? Use the current?”</p>
<p>Not giving up. Not waiting to die. Use the current.</p>
<p>He nods. Firm. Sure.</p>
<p>Scott and Lydia are on either side of him, holding his hands in theirs, and he can do this.</p>
<p>Deaton takes over again, his voice calm, and Stiles focuses on it. “Your father’s right, Stiles. Instead of fighting the memories, try guiding them. Focus on the memories of things that remind you who you are, that are the most important to you. The people that are most important to you.”</p>
<p>That sounds familiar. “Like an anchor.”</p>
<p>Deaton considers. “More like a rudder. Don’t force yourself to stay in any one memory. Keep moving through them, if that’s what you want to do. Just make sure you’re going in the right direction.”</p>
<p>“And what direction’s that?”</p>
<p>Deaton smiles. “That’s up to you.”</p>
<p>That’s not exactly helpful, and he doesn’t respond because <em> don’t they understand that he can’t control this </em>? Despair settles heavy in his chest. It feels like drowning.</p>
<p>Scott’s hand tightens over his. “Stiles, you can do this. I know you can.”</p>
<p>(He’s sitting on the table in the MRI room, and Scott catches his eyes. Makes a promise. He’s outside the exam room, the diagnosis he dreaded echoing in his brain. Scott wraps him in a hug. He’s having a panic attack in his own kitchen, and Scott’s crouching in front of him. Pulls him out of it.)</p>
<p>He’s sitting on the exam table at the Animal Clinic, and he meets Scott’s eyes. Scott’s worried, he can tell, but the worry is hidden behind an intense, earnest conviction.</p>
<p>Stiles may not trust his own mind right now, but he trusts Scott, and Scott believes in him. He takes a deep breath, and plunges back into his memories.</p><hr/>
<p>He’s five years old, and he’s at the beach, standing at the edge of the water. The water recedes, then washes up around his ankles, and it’s rhythmic and repetitive and good. He wiggles his toes in the wet sand. It’s so cool and it feels so weird, and it’s only when he starts to lose his balance that he realizes that each wave has carried a little bit of sand away. The ground isn’t solid anymore and he starts to fall, face first into the water—</p>
<p>Dad catches him, picks him up by his shoulders, and sets him down again a little further back from the water. “Whoa there, kiddo. I’ve got you.”</p>
<p>He’s nine, and his dad’s standing behind him again. Still standing behind him. Arms wrapped around him tight because they just visited mom in the hospital and he really loves her, but sometimes visiting her hurts. “What do you say we go get some ice cream?”</p>
<p>He’s sixteen and everything hurts, because he just got beaten up by a crazy asshole who thought he could send a message via the expressive canvas of Stiles’ face. Because that’s what he gets for being the token fragile human. But his dad doesn’t care about any of that—doesn’t even know about any of that. Dad wraps his arms around him, and for just a moment he’s back to being a little kid who believes that his dad’s hugs can make everything better. </p>
<p>It doesn’t make everything better, but something in his chest unravels, and he thinks maybe he can survive this. </p>
<p>It’s later that same night, and Lydia’s in his room. It’s the first time she’s ever been in his room, and he’s pretty sure that should feel significant, but right here and now it just feels normal. Right.</p>
<p>She notices all of the potential gifts scattered around the room, and a tiny smile lights up her face when he explains that yes he bought them all for her, no he wasn’t planning on giving them all to her, he just couldn’t make up his mind, and yes he was going to return everything.</p>
<p>She points out the flat screen tv and actually laughs, and it’s the first time he’s seen her laugh in weeks.</p>
<p>They’re on the lacrosse field and she’s not laughing, she’s barely breathing, bleeding out, dying—</p>
<p>He’s back in his room with Lydia and it’s the same night, the one where she noticed all the gifts. She’s alive and she’s safe, but if she has her way he knows that won’t last for long.</p>
<p>“Death doesn’t happen to you,” he says and desperately hopes that she’s listening. “It happens to everybody else.”</p>
<p>He’s talking to himself as much as her, because he’s not going to be anybody’s message. He’s not going to be the reason that his friends suffer.</p>
<p>(He’s dying and there’s nothing he can do about it. It’s called frontotemporal dementia and it’s what his mom had and there’s no cure. He’s going to waste away and his friends are going to have to watch, and it’s going to hurt them. It’s going to hurt his dad. It’s going to hurt Scott.)</p>
<p>(Every instinct is telling him to run far away from them. To hide. After all, he’s done it before. That night that Gerard beat him up and turned him loose to send a message to Scott… Well, he’s always been contrary. He avoided Scott, didn’t tell him. Didn’t want to see the pain on Scott’s face and know that he was the reason.)</p>
<p>(Maybe running away is the only way to keep his friends safe.)</p>
<p>Cold water closes over his head at the thought and somewhere in the back of his mind he laughs wildly at the irony, because of course he always ends up here. Because sometimes giving up, giving in, is the only way to save everyone.</p>
<p>Except—except that’s not right. Is it? Can’t be right.</p>
<p>Isn’t right. Not this time.</p>
<p>Dad didn’t say to drown, he said to stay afloat. Swim with the current.</p>
<p>Stay with the current, but find a rudder. Pick a direction.</p>
<p>Well, that’s an easy one—not even a question. Because his direction has always been his friends. Sometimes protecting them. Sometimes following their lead. </p>
<p>But always them.</p>
<p>Lydia’s lying in a hospital bed, and she isn’t healing, but she’s not dying either, not anymore. She isn’t bleeding out alone because Stiles called Jackson and Jackson called an ambulance. She’s not out of the woods, not yet, but for now she’s <em> safe </em>.</p>
<p>He’s at Scott’s house, and he and Allison are frantically barricading the door, because Lydia’s in danger again, and they have to protect her. Scott’s not here yet, but in the meantime they’ve got Allison’s crossbow and her hunter skills, and they’ve got his brain. They can do this. Maybe.</p>
<p>Then Scott shows up, and he’s all confidence and determination, and maybe turns to <em> definitely </em>. When it comes to wolves the whole is always greater than the sum of its parts, and they can do this. They can keep Lydia safe.</p>
<p>If Scott has his way, they’ll keep everyone safe.</p>
<p>(Maybe that’s his way now, too.)</p>
<p>He’s seventeen, and an hour ago he was dead. He let the water in because he had to, because he needed to, and he drowned.</p>
<p>He was dead.</p>
<p>But he’s not dead now, he’s alive, and it <em> worked </em>. He found the nemeton, found his dad, found all of them. His dad’s alive and he’s clinging to a hug because he, Scott, and Allison died to save them and it worked.</p>
<p>They saved them all.</p>
<p>He’s seventeen and Scott’s an alpha now—red eyes and everything—and there’s another person to save, a teenage girl who’s stuck in the body of a coyote and being hunted by her own father because he doesn’t know what she is. But Beacon Hills Preserve is huge and sprawling, and the girl’s father is nothing if not thorough, so there’s traps everywhere, and he’s starting to wonder if they’re going to make it in time.</p>
<p>And then Scott roars. </p>
<p>He doesn’t know how he knows it’s Scott—well, technically, that’s not quite true. Intellectually, he knows it’s the core of the entire plan, Scott using his newfound alpha abilities to make the girl shift back to human. But it’s more than that.</p>
<p>He <em> knows </em>.</p>
<p>Scott roars, and he no longer has any doubt that the plan is going to work. They’ve got this, because Scott’s got this. And if they’ve got Scott and they’ve got each other, then they can do this.</p>
<p>In that moment, standing in the forest with Lydia, Scott’s roar ringing in his ears, he believes that maybe—just maybe—they can do anything.</p>
<p>A sharp, piercing pain shoots through his upper arm.</p>
<p>It’s not part of the memory—and all of this is a memory, he knows that now—but it cuts through it, harsh and present and clear. It screams in harmony with the echo of the roar. </p>
<p>Or maybe he’s the one screaming. Maybe they’re the same thing and it doesn’t matter.</p>
<p>His vision tunnels, and the memory slowly fades to black. All that’s left now is the roar, and it sounds like hope.</p>
<p>It sounds like home.</p><hr/>
<p>Stiles blinks himself awake, and the first thing he thinks is that the world is far too bright.</p>
<p>He props himself up on his elbows, and realizes that he’s in his bedroom. The light that woke him up is just the sun streaming in through his window, which it only does when he’s slept in considerably. A glance at his clock, which reads 11:13 AM, confirms this theory.</p>
<p>The second thing he thinks is more of a feeling than it is strictly a thought. He pauses for a moment, before realizing that the feeling is shock—specifically shock that he was able to wake up without fighting through multiple layers of nightmares. He can’t remember the last time that happened. </p>
<p>Unless this is a nightmare? It wouldn’t be the first time that something conjured by his brain successfully masqueraded as reality. He squints up at a poster on his wall, reading it twice to confirm that the letters haven’t rearranged themselves. When they stay in their proper places, he counts his fingers. Ten of them, just like there should be.</p>
<p>He considers counting his toes as well, but that might be pushing his paranoia a little too far, so he decides to tentatively accept that this might actually be reality.</p>
<p>He sits up, and is suddenly aware of the odd feeling of something pulling at his upper arm. He shoves his sleeve up, revealing a large white bandage taped securely in place. </p>
<p>He runs his hand over it, and the events of the previous night—what he remembers of it, at least—come rushing back.</p>
<p>He remembers waking up on the table in the clinic, head cushioned by something soft. Probably Scott’s jacket. At some point everyone decided that if he was going to die he probably would’ve done it already, and Dad drove him home. Scott followed on his motorcycle, because he’s always been overprotective like that.</p>
<p>Stiles has the sneaking suspicion that isn’t going to end any time soon. </p>
<p>However, not dying isn’t technically proof. So he works a finger under the bandage, takes a deep breath, and tears the whole thing off in one motion. He hadn’t been lying to Isaac when he said he was a big fan of ripping off the band-aid. </p>
<p>He runs his hand over smooth, unbroken skin, and his breath hitches. “Holy shit.” He barely even realizes that he says it out loud. </p>
<p>Because if his arm healed, then maybe—<em> just maybe </em>—his brain has, too.</p>
<p>He runs his tongue over too-dry lips and sits in shock for a moment before realizing that this is information he should probably share. He’s about to yell for Scott—except he doesn’t have to, because he can hear someone running up the hall, and he knows it’s Scott before the door even opens.</p>
<p>“Stiles! You okay?” Scott’s concerned, but there’s a little hope there, too.</p>
<p>He swings his legs over to sit on the edge of the bed and laughs a little as he rolls up his sleeve again, because this is categorically insane. And that’s saying something, given the general trend of his life over the past year. “Scott, I think it worked.”</p>
<p>Relief washes over Scott’s face, and he breaks into a grin. “So, it healed? Completely healed?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, as far as I can tell.” He had thought that Scott might just know if it worked, but maybe it doesn’t work that way, so he suggests something else. “We can, I dunno, cut me or something? See if that heals, too?”</p>
<p>Scott laughs and crouches down in front of him. “I think I’ve got a better idea.” He concentrates, and his eyes glow a bright, Alpha red. </p>
<p>Stiles feels his own eyes flare in return.</p>
<p>He’s not sure who pulls who into a hug first. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>When I first watched the "I'll do something" scene in Riddled, I was emotionally floored. When I recovered, I found myself wondering what would've happened if the story had ended up going in that direction, rather than the nogitsune storyline. And, uh. This was the result. </p>
<p>Title is from "Head Above Water" by Avril Lavigne</p></blockquote></div></div>
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